“Four hundred pounds?!?” I echo.

Short Tony gives me a shamefaced look. “Four hundred pounds,” he confirms.

“Four hundred pounds?!?”

He nods. “Four hundred pounds.”

Four hundred pounds is shedloads of money. This is clearly some sort of gold-plated cow.

“I was a bit shocked as well,” confesses Short Tony. “I’m sorry – you can drop out of the cow syndicate if you want.” He uses his Derren Brown-like telepathic powers to complete the sentence wordlessly: “which will mean that my share will go up to six hundred pounds.”

“Nonono,” I mutter, tramping back to the Cottage. It is a bit of a worry, and the best I can do is to forget it for a while.

“Four hundred pounds?!?” shrieks The LTLP, breaking off from preparing a dinner from frozen chicken, frozen ribs, frozen peas and frozen mixed vegetables. “Four hundred pounds?!? How big is this fucking cow?!?”

“Well I would imagine…” I begin, trying to visualise a cow in my mind. I glance down at the freezer. We have been eating frozen food all week, and have made enough space to accommodate a side of mole. “Do you fancy some fish fingers as well?”

She gives me an abbatoir stare. “It had better,” she hisses, “be substantial.”

I trot into the cottage to inform the LTLP. She will be delighted at the news.

“And where the fuck are we going to keep it?!?” she yells at me. Honestly – any psychologist will tell you: there is ‘practical,’ and there is ‘paralysed into total inaction by a pathologic need to raise silly objections about every little thing.’ Sometimes I think she tips over into the latter category.

Short Tony, Len the Fish and I have agreed to buy third shares in a cow, with the objective of saving money on beef. It is a smart scheme in this economic climate, the sort of idea that demonstrates clearly why Norfolk is thriving whilst Greece and Italy totter. Beef must be one of the major outgoings in this household, and if we can cut our beef bill then we will be in clover, as opposed to the cow.

“We will freeze it of course,” I reply.

We examine the freezer, which is a smallish one connected to our fridge. It is not like it is totally, absolutely, completely full. There is a bit of space between the sausage meat and the ‘Smarties’ ice creams (on offer), and the peas could probably be flattened out a bit.

“How big is a third of a cow?” asks the LTLP.

I am at a bit of a loss as to this. “Well a cow is…” I make a sort of cow sized shape by stretching out my arms and waving them out. She eyes the freezer with some scepticism.

“Don’t forget that a lot of animals are mainly fur, so are a lot smaller than they look,” I add.

Truth be told, the freezer has been badly packed, and will surely offer some more space following a reorganisation. In addition to that, the cow is not due for at least three weeks, and so there will be time to consume much of the contents therein. Not shopping for the next three weeks will save us shedloads, in addition to our cow steakholding.

If it is possible to close a fridge freezer with an ominous air, she does it.

“You will enjoy it when it arrives,” I insist.

“Eh?” I blink at the screen.

It is all very bizarre. For years, I have been writing my Private Secret Diary at least weekly – yet according to the date on the screen, we have jumped forward in time by ages and ages since I was last here. It is crazy. One minute I am typing away and the next minute I have lost several weeks of history.

Two words flash through my mind. “Time slip.”

I try to make sense of it all, but my brain refuses to respond. It is clear that some sort of wormhole has opened and closed, putting this part of Norfolk in a different time zone. Woah!!! I am a big fan of science fiction, but this is a bit too close to home. I check out of the window to check that the world is not full of strange pyramid structures and ruled by giant ants, but everything seems OK unless they are using some form of docility/obedience implant on my head, like in the TV show ‘the Tripods’.

I check my head in vain. I think I am in the clear. But where has the time gone?

“For Christ’s sake, there are spots all over his arse and legs!” shouts the LTLP, brandishing the Baby at me.

I shoo her away, irritated by her priorities. If the UK really has time-slipped and in the process been invaded by giant ants driving tripods then I am not sure that I completely trust Gordon Brown’s leadership. The Community Bus stops outside the window to pick up one of the old folk. It all seems perfectly normal. But that is what they want you to think.

“Daddy I need a bit of a hand,” calls Child #1, who has been in the toilet for twenty minutes, undertaking her poo.

The Baby toddles over to the cooker and starts turning the gas on and off, on and off.

Things are getting on top of me a little.